


watch all the ashes fly up

by saucerfulofsins



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bottom Shiro (Voltron), First Time, Fuck Or Die, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, PornHugTM, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-10 03:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20128342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saucerfulofsins/pseuds/saucerfulofsins
Summary: Shiro definitely shouldn't go poking his knife into weird alien potato-mushrooms with possibly magical properties. Yet that is exactly what happens—and discovers quite how potent these potatoes are.(Please heed the tags/notes!)





	watch all the ashes fly up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imagines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagines/gifts).

> This fic was born from my craving for some classic fuck or die/sex pollen fic, which I hope I succeeded in doing. However, this does mean that the story contains dubious consent, both because Shiro is affected by the pollen and therefore cannot think 100% clearly (although on a different level from inebriation) and because only having sex will in fact ensure his survival. 
> 
> Please don't read this if this is makes you feel uncomfortable or is potentially harmful to your mental health! If you have more questions regarding the fic, please feel free to leave a comment and I'll try to get back to you ASAP :)

The pilot of the Black Lion, the captain of Voltron, and oldest of the Paladins—all of these are roles are designated to pinpoint Shiro as The Responsible One.

Generally, he fills that role pretty well. He makes sure that everyone stays in shape and gets enough sleep, that they remain serious and focused when the situation calls for it, and most importantly, he cleans up after everyone’s ass because otherwise, the Castle would look more like a bachelor pad than a pristine ancient Altean structure.

And _yet_.

They’re taking a break to restock on food on an oxygen-based green planet; with some time to spare Shiro decided to take a walk in an environment that is natural rather than artificial. He’s found a secluded muddy path along a stream of soft purple water. The entire place looks magical, almost like fantasy paintings with its huge grasses and larger trees towering above him. The leaves are composed of all imaginable shades of green; some are closer to reds and oranges while others approach blue and silvery greys.

The planet is one of the most breath-taking yet.

It’s in the underbrush that Shiro spots what appear to be large potatoes, the smallest the size of his head.

Shiro’s the leader. He’s the responsible one.

That doesn’t keep him from kneeling beside the potato-plants to prod at them with a finger. They jiggle a little and Shiro is mesmerised. Their texture isn’t quite jelly, too firm for that, but he can’t think of a better earthly comparison.

He _knows_ he shouldn’t pull out his knife. He _knows_ he shouldn’t stick it into the plant. There is no good reason whatsoever for him to be messing with alien botany of any kind unless Hunk serves it on a platter for dinner.

The blade slides through the plant easily, smoothly, and it’s so satisfying that a shiver runs down Shiro’s spine. The texture is slightly grainy and he cuts in deeper, taking out a chunk. The inside is clear and gelatinous, blue-purple like the water, and still deeper inside he can see a core, like the stone of an avocado, containing something else entirely.

The miniature model of a galaxy is encased by the jiggly thick shell he’s already cut through, and the likes of which Shiro’s never seen before.

He sticks his knife into the centre.

Immediately, the gel previously protecting the core melts onto the forest floor and a cloud of fine particles spreads through the air. He covers his face, but some gets into his mouth and he coughs around the stinging feeling in his throat. The particles are sweet and melt on his tongue like earthy honey.

He needs a moment to catch his breath, to push away the suddenly overwhelming memories of home along with a pleasant heat spreading in his stomach. Shiro wonders if he has been drugged, but after five minutes there is no change in his perception of colours or shapes. The heat doesn’t change, it just settles into his stomach like he drank a glass of alcohol, pleasant and comfortable.

He ends up using his foot to nudge the biggest chunks of gel away from the path and back into the underbrush and makes his way back to his lion.

* * *

Shiro doesn’t think much of the encounter at all. If his first mistake was to cut open the plant, then this is his second.

That evening, when they are back on board of the Castle, he starts to feel ill.

The hot-and-cold shivers that run up and down his spine feel like he’s coming down with a fever. He lets Allura know, who instructs him to tell her if he starts feeling worse, and then informs Keith, who tells him to get some rest.

He knows he should heed their advice but ignoring physical discomfort has become second nature. Instead of turning in to bed, he tries to make himself useful by settling down and planning the most tactical route to the next planet they need to liberate from the Galra. He still eats dinner with the other paladins, compliments Hunk, and gets back to his room before realising he’s starting to feel worse.

The heat starts to spread. It burns his fingertips and his toes and he thinks of the eternal lists of possible symptoms of his disease that he keeps memorised even now, remembers _neuropathic pain_, and wonders if he should tell Allura. A cool shower quells the feeling and bizarrely, belatedly, afterwards he realises he’s half-hard, the feeling in his stomach so strange that he hadn’t noticed.

In bed, he tries to jack off—he works himself up to full hardness and sweat-clammy skin, but an orgasm remains elusive. The heat rackets up and his stomach twists unpleasantly, so he gives up and tries to catch some sleep instead.

* * *

He wakes up while already grinding his hips into the mattress, although his awareness returns to him only slowly. Sweating profusely and the cocoon he’s in far too hot to breathe properly, he turns to his back and kicks off the blankets so he can curl his fingers around his throbbing cock. His sinews feel raw, exposed, like every touch is amplified and turned up to pain; Shiro groans when he needs to stop after a couple of tugs, too on edge but once again too uncomfortable to continue.

He turns back to his stomach and screams his frustration into the pillow before getting up anyway, because what else is he going to do. His skin is on fire and he after getting to his feet feels off-centre for a few moments before his head realigns itself with the rest of the world.

Telling Allura about his evolving symptoms sounds unappealing if it means having to list everything, to tell her that _hey I feel miserable and I’m hard all the fucking time but I can’t get off when I masturbate, what the hell is this_. Over breakfast, he first snaps first at Lance and then at Pidge, and when they’re training and he explodes at Hunk. After that, they leave him alone; he’s not far enough gone to miss the sidelong glances cast in his direction, worried and scared.

That all, of course, doesn’t exclude Keith—who seeks him out in the corridor after shit goes to hell. His gentle touch to Shiro’s arm sends blissful ice-cold relief through his veins, soothing the horrible heat in his body and clearing his mind a little for the first time in hours. Shiro is so taken aback by it that he doesn’t hear what Keith says the first time around.

“What?” he asks dumbly.

“Are you okay?” Keith asks him. “You seem pretty out of it.”

“Yeah,” he states. “I just—I feel like shit.”

“If you still have a fever you really shouldn’t have been training,” Keith frowns. “You know that. Come on, let’s get you back to your room.”

Normally, Shiro would protest. Instead, he lets Keith guide him there while he tries to come up with a less creepy version of _can you please stay with me because I am burning up, and somehow your touch makes me feel so much better_.

He doesn’t, of course. Keith helps him settle in bed and he looks worried all the while, but he still leaves Shiro alone for the remainder of the evening. The fire that has nestled itself deep inside Shiro grows into a bonfire and he’s burning up, dizzy with it—and with that, the arousal increases too until he’s achingly hard but no matter how hard he tries, he finds no relief when he masturbates.

Keith drops by after lunch and sits with him for a while. Shiro doesn’t listen to Keith’s quiet words but lets them wash over him—this time he shamelessly holds on to Keith to feel the relief rush through him and pretends that it is only the fever, the comfort of having someone else close by.

* * *

After Keith leaves, Shiro tries to nap to pass time more quickly but he soon figures out that he feels too horrible to drift off.

By the time evening rolls around, he is not sure he can still _walk_. The fire in his body hurts even at the slightest touch and the sheets deliver nothing but agony while he tries to stay as still as possible. A cold shower might help, he thinks, and he’s vaguely aware that this could be a potentially dangerous alien disease—he doesn’t know whether his temperature is actually skyrocketing but it might be, could be, feels like it is with the amount of sweat glistening on his skin and the flush he sees when he looks down to his chest.

“Shiro?”

Shiro hadn’t heard Keith enter the room but it makes sense, somehow, that he’d show up. Sluggishly, he raises his head.

“You missed dinne—holy shit, _Shiro_.”

He rushes towards Shiro and normally Shiro would feel bad about receiving that kind of attention, but he can’t when Keith’s hands are finally back on him. Immediately he’s dunked into a bath of cool fresh water after spending days in a scorching desert, his lungs opening, blooming like fresh flowers; a tear drips from his eye at the sheer relief of Keith’s sweet touch.

“I’m going to see Allura right,” Keith firmly decides.

_You can’t_, Shiro thinks. _Stay. Stay, stay, stay._ He reaches out for Keith again, plays mean by using his prosthetic’s firm touch, but he can’t be blamed when he can’t be alone, can’t lose Keith’s touch there to keep him sane.

“Shiro,” Keith says, sitting down on the bed. He strokes his hand down Shiro’s side and this time it’s more than relief—no, it is spine-tingling pleasure that rushes through every fibre of his being, enough so to push his hips up. _More_, he thinks. “I’m worried,” he says, biting down on red lips that Shiro wants to wet with his tongue. “And wondering, like, did you come into contact with something yesterday?”

He shakes his head, then nods as he remembers the giant jelly-blob potato. “Shit,” he groans. “Some plant.” His throat hurts and he tries to swallow away the drought. “Giant potatoes. Big as my head. _Bigger_.”

“I’m going to get you some water,” Keith mutters. His frown deepens and he shakes his head.

The moment his touch is gone, his bones feel like they’re on a rack, each limb pulled back around a coil while someone tries to light a fire inside his guts.

Staying conscious is difficult; Keith’s hands pull him back up, and finally true fear starts to set in—not only because of the intensity of the feelings but because he sees it in Keith’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Keith tells him, smoothing his hand over Shiro’s forehead, pushing the damp locks back. “I really do need to go see Allura now, she might know what to do.”

“Feels like I’m dying,” Shiro croaks, gasping, fear coming over him for the first time when the corners of Keith’s mouth pull down.

“I’ll be back soon,” he tells Shiro. “Call me if you need me, okay? You’ve got your pad here. You know what to do.”

Shiro nods.

* * *

His existence shrinks until it has reduced to consist of the fire inside of him.

For long moments Shiro thinks that he might have become a supernova, burning hot in the centre of a dying star. Only vaguely he remembers that Keith is—doing _something_, helping _somehow_, and he thinks about calling him, but he unwaveringly trusts Keith to return and save him.

A couple of times he looks at his fingers, breathes out, all to check whether he can see flames erupt from his body yet. His skin is turning redder like it has been rubbed raw after a sunburn worse than he’s ever had before—he wonders if blisters will form if it takes any longer.

He doesn’t hear Keith come in, only sobs with relief when Keith’s cooling hands are on him again although they don’t stop the smoulder, only slowing down its incessant devouring of his body.

“Hey, Shiro. I need you to listen to me,” Keith says quietly, voice laced with an emotion Shiro can’t place in his haze. “You ran into some scared nightshade. It’s released pollen into the air which is why you’re feeling sick.” Shiro nods, thoughts drifting off as Keith’s fingers continue brush through his hair, soothing at the very least the pain. “Um. I don’t know how to say this.”

Shiro doesn’t either but he blinks up at Keith, feeling bleary, and shoots him a smile that he hopes is reassuring.

“Uh. Allura called them lethal flowering aphrodisiacs. Pidge called them sex pollen.”

“Sex?” Shiro asks. The word echoes in his ears and he’s struggling to imagine what illness has to do with sex—until he remembers the hard-on that he’s been sporting for the past day or so, the ache of it pushed to the background of his consciousness, overwhelmed by the scorching of his organs.

“Something about the pollinating system—she said contamination is lethal for Alteans,” he says. “And, presumably, homo sapiens.”

_Lethal_. The meaning of the word is undeniable, and fear once again pierces the fog of pain-and-pleasure he’s currently in. “I’m dying?”

“There’s a cure,” Keith intercepts quickly. “It’s—just, Shiro, you won’t like this.”

Keith’s face is red, Shiro thinks, almost as red as his own burning skin.

“You have to have sex, is what it comes down to.”

Shiro snorts. He can’t help it; even with his fever-addled brain, the cure sounds ridiculous. It fits with their adventures, but it sounds impossible that this should be the fix.

“I’m being serious, Shiro,” Keith mutters. “I don’t wish this on anyone.”

“Who?” he asks. He doesn’t really need to. Keith’s soothing touch is answer enough.

“There’s usually just one person whose touch—helps.” Keith sounds strained. “I’m sorry.”

He sounds upset that Shiro will be forced to have sex with him and immediately Shiro is overcome with a need to tell Keith it’s okay, that he shouldn’t worry about _Shiro’s_ part in this. He’s more upset that these are the circumstances, and he certainly doesn’t want to force _Keith_ into this—if anyone’s the victim here, it’s him.

“No,” Shiro manages. In the end, he’d rather die than put Keith in an uncomfortable position; he deserves autonomy here too. “_You_ shouldn’t have to.”

Keith is quiet for a long time, his fingers gently stroking Shiro’s fever-hot forehead. “Well, I think that in the grand scheme of things, this is one of the easier ways of saving your life.”

“You can let me die,” Shiro gurgles.

“I’m not going—fuck, shut up—I’m not going to let you fry yourself from the inside out,” Keith huffs. “No. I’m going to do this. It’s fine. It’s fine for me, I just wish you didn’t have to go through this.”

Despite the haze he’s in, Shiro manages to find Keith’s hand—or maybe it’s because of it, another rush of cool comfort rushing through his body—and kisses the back of it. He tries not to shiver, not to gasp at the precome leaking from his dick, soaked up by his underwear. “I appreciate it,” he tells Keith. “Don’t worry about me, please.”

Keith takes a deep breath, looks like he’s about to say something for all of five seconds before he deflates. “Where’s your lube,” he finally asks.

His hand rubs circles into Shiro’s wrist and he’s out of his mind with the pleasure every turn sends through his limbs. There’s no use fighting it, too good after a couple of bad nights and his body still trying to char itself to a crisp.

He manages to direct Keith to the set of drawers pushed against the opposite wall. He can barely talk the moment Keith lets go of him and the tears that burn in the corners of his eyes hammer home the severity of the situation while Keith looks at him.

“What, uh, what were you thinking?” he asks Shiro, plopping down next to him.

Shiro spreads his legs without thinking, which means it’s going to be that way—he can’t imagine his instinct being anything but _right _at this time. He’s aware of how flushed his skin is, the way the fine hairs on his legs and arms stand on end; he shivers when Keith slides his hands under the shirt he’s wearing, helping him to take it off. The Castle’s climate-controlled air feels good against his overheating skin and Keith’s hands feel even better, fingers brushing over his nipples and his abs before they find their way down to his underwear. That, too, is lost quickly, leaving Shiro fully exposed, waiting for Keith’s fingers.

Looking down at himself, he sees his dick has flushed purple like he’s been edging himself for days, leaking precome where it curves up against his stomach. His body responds to Keith’s touch by chasing after it whenever he distances himself, needing _more, more, more_ all the time.

“I'll take care of you, Shiro,” Keith murmurs quietly, squirting some lube onto his fingers. “Just relax, yeah?”

The words put him at ease and Shiro does his best, breathing through it. He still expects the nervous clench of muscles when Keith brushes a finger over his rim but it doesn't come, and when Keith slowly pushes down, Shiro’s body sucks in the finger in a way it never has before, his nerves so sensitive and touch-starved that this alone feels mind-blowingly brilliant and leaves him for a want of air.

He's still gasping when Keith wriggles his finger around a little, and although delirious, he has the presence of mind to conclude that Keith must have done this before, maybe to someone else or maybe to himself—it's impossible to know, and he's not sure he wants to if it is the former.

“Shiro,” Keith mumbles again, adding another finger while tapping hips hip with his free hand. “Stay with me, yeah?”

All Shiro can think to say is, “More, _now_.” His body is screaming for it; the moment Keith gives him something, satisfaction turns to despair within seconds and Shiro is spiralling, burning hotter still now that his body is given what it wants, more frantic by the second.

Instead Keith shifts, pulling out his fingers, and Shiro can't help the frantic high-pitched wail that escapes him. Terror rushes through his body, leaving his mind a wasteland of what-ifs and can't-dos, until Keith settles between his legs, on top of him, and this time he's naked, his soft warm skin brushing against Shiro’s and sending cold-hot electricity through him.

“I don't think you need more prep,” Keith says, and although Shiro’s vision is blurred and distorted by now he can see Keith smile shyly, ducking away once he realises Shiro is looking up at him.

“Yeah, okay,” Shiro gasps and then the head of Keith's dick pushes against his hole.

It doesn't alleviate the burn like he'd hoped it would, like Keith's touch did those first twelve hours after exposure, but at least there is no escalation it either. Instead, the char sits inside of him, futilely waiting for another chance to spread, and his legs come up around Keith's hips of their own accord, pulling him closer.

“Oh,” Keith grunts, groans, shifting his hips experimentally like he’s testing the give of Shiro’s body. He’s careful with his movements, mindful enough to reach out for Shiro’s hand and lace their fingers together. “_Shit_, you're tight.”

“Fuck me,” Shiro babbles because already he's close, _finally_ close to relief after far too long, but he is going to need Keith’s help—and he doesn’t know what, or how, but it has to happen soon or he’s going to burst from his skin. The pleasure is overwhelming now, washing over the burning sensation in breath-taking waves.

And Keith nods, the line of his jaw setting in determination as he rolls his hips forwards with shallow thrusts. When Shiro groans, pushing back against him, he does it again, finally drawing almost all the way out before slamming their hips together.

Shiro can't breathe, can only hang on to Keith as he does it again, increasing the rhythm. The force of Keith’s movements cause Shiro’s legs to slip from Keith's waist, and he barely manages to keep them up until Keith hooks his elbow behind one of them—Shiro’s hip protests at the awkward angle but it allows Keith to fuck him deeper which is infinitely more important.

“Keith,” is all he can gasp. “Keith, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

Keith looks delirious, his pupils blown wide and purple against striking yellow and his incisors too sharp to be human. He's punching desperate moans out of Shiro, tears them from somewhere deep inside of him as their bodies give in to their natural cravings.

That much is noticeable too when Keith leans back down, nearly folding Shiro in half. Shiro curls up to meet him, supporting himself on his arms as they mash their mouths together. Finesse is nowhere to find; instead, they kiss hard and rough with Keith’s teeth digging into Shiro’s bottom lip before licking into his mouth. Shiro sucks Keith’s tongue into his mouth and groans; the position is too difficult to keep, a crick already forming in Shiro’s neck, and he needs to pull back before he _wants_ to.

Seeing Keith with his mouth newly rubbed red, the flash of something softer, almost tender, momentarily twists the heat in Shiro’s stomach into something different. He doesn’t have the capacity for thought; instead, he reaches for his leaking dick, desperately stroking it. He is shaking, feels too much and receives too little all at once as he tilts his hips into a different angle. Keith's dick brushes up against his prostate and his body seizes again, clenching around Keith and the heat swells and swells and—

He hears Keith moan, his hair brushing Shiro’s shoulder as he lowers his head as he comes deep inside of him. Immediately, something clicks inside of him; with Keith’s hips still bucking erratically into Shiro, Shiro spills over his stomach. He loses sight of his surroundings, vision whiting out as the heat explodes through his body one final time before it dissolves into an immense and overwhelming pleasure.

He spends a long time with his eyes closed, riding out the waves coursing over him, lost in time.

The first things Shiro becomes aware of are Keith's hands.

They're cool but not cold as they wipe a washcloth across his stomach, cleaning him up. Now that Shiro doesn’t feel like his insides are aflame any longer, Keith’s hands feel—well. Normal, mostly. Like human touch, albeit by someone he dearly loves and whose touch he certainly still enjoys.

“Hey,” he says, his voice rough. He realises that must be from the shouting (or screaming, possibly—he doesn’t remember now). His limbs are heavy and it's hard to move but when he tries Keith hushes him anyway.

“It's okay, keep quiet,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he confesses. “Tired.”

He's not sure if he imagines the flush on Keith's cheeks. When Keith moves to wash Shiro's thigh, his asshole, he realises that come is dripping out of him, smeared between his legs—and Keith's movements remain languid, slow and relaxed, not at all skittish around Shiro.

He’s clearly not embarrassed.

Shiro's glad for it. Everything would have been more difficult had Keith avoided him, had Keith hated him for needing to do this.

Instead, he's gentle as he finishes cleaning Shiro. He's wearing his underwear and a concentrated frown and when he returns from the washroom to deposit the dirty towel, he sits down on the bed besides Shiro.

“We'll have to talk about this, I guess,” he says, and Shiro nods. “But maybe later if you’re tired?”

"Yeah," Shiro mumbles. “Please.”

Silence falls over them and it continues to stretch on, even when Keith covers Shiro's hand with his own. He doesn’t meet Shiro's eyes, instead opting to study their hands as he laces their fingers together.

“Should I leave?” he asks Shiro. The question is quiet, self-conscious in a way Shiro hasn't heard often from Keith, and certainly not since returning from Kerberos. “Do you want me to?”

In many ways, the simplest option is to say _yes_. Shiro knows this. He can keep up the pretence around Keith as he has for the past several months, or maybe longer. From here, they can carry on being the way they have always been and pretend this never happened. Nothing to complicate his leadership, no accusations of favouritism among the other Paladins, and no change in his relationship with his best friend.

“No,” he tells Keith instead. He doesn't yet want to say _I love you_ and he doesn't yet want to say _I've dreamed about us_. He says, “I don't want to be alone, right now.”

Keith nods, stifling a yawn against the smooth skin of his upper arm while he rubs the back of his neck. “I'll just turn off the lights, then.”

Shiro doesn't say anything. He watches Keith still not watching him, instead quietly moving about the room and putting away their things. The tidiness strikes him as uncharacteristic, even if mostly because Shiro has never seen Keith clean before. He throws Shiro a clean pair of underwear, which he puts on before crawling under the covers.

In the dark, Keith lifts the sheets but hesitates before getting in beside Shiro. Initially, the touch is awkward, Keith’s hands and feet cold brushes against Shiro’s skin before skittering away. Finally, Shiro can’t take it anymore. He pulls Keith against his chest with one arm around his waist, burying his nose in that soft dark hair. Keith's hands settle between them, pressed between their chests, their legs tangled together with Keith’s toes thawing against Shiro’s until he can’t tell where his own body ends and where Keith begins.

Shiro sleeps.


End file.
